Cayle Murray is angry, pissed off, and tired. Only 15-20 minutes have passed since the chaotic events that closed DEFtv, and he's still dripping with sweat, carried by adrenaline and adrenaline alone.

Cayle Murray:
WrestleUTA!

He snaps round to the camera. His eyes are blazen with fury; his hair sweat-sodden and clamped to his forehead.

Cayle Murray:
Enough's enough.

The FIST of DEFIANCE shakes his head.

Cayle Murray:
Yours was the first company that called when I returned to the States in 2015. Six years away from these shores, and you guys took me in. Said I could achieve anything on your platform. Said that if I put my head down, worked hard, and applied myself, you'd make me a star.

The damn squid's angry, lads. Jeezus Christ.

Cayle Murray:
So what'd I do? I worked my fingers to the goddam bone. I ground my body to DUST. I did everything you asked of me, and then some. Bottom line - there are a lot of hard workers in this business, but nobody worked harder to make YOUR compay a success during that period than I did. And THIS is how you repay me?!

He poits a finger right in the camera.

Cayle Murray:
You screwed my brother out of his title. Put him on the shelf. Hospitalised him. Maybe ended his bloody career! Then you turn your focus to me. Beat me down. Sic that wolf, Hightower, on my trail. Try to take THIS...

Cayle holds up the FIST of DEFIANCE.

Cayle Murray:
NO MORE. I'm taking control of this situation. I'm ENDING this problem before it spirals out of control. Screw War Games, I'm going all the way to the top...

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TALKING SMACK

"I like that you speak in metaphors, like a character from Star Trek: The Next Generation. I like it and I only wish you would do it more, because I have refers to a match as a miracle of canvas, upon which we brush a tapestry as the Medicis look upon in abject horror, the knowledge that the papal legacy within their blood holds no sway over the inevitability of the destruction to come . For five hundred dollars and the points."